Inside Cliff House, the lights are off.
I think at first there must be some kind of problem—a power outage, or something more sinister—but Diego ushers us forward, explaining that they keep the lights off at night to avoid notice from passing ships. As my eyes adjust, I see the huge windows lining the back wall, overlooking the dark horizon. Amanda’s militia has converted what seems like a former restaurant into something between a command center and a home—to our right is a balcony, looking down on a space crowded with beds, and to our left is a section functioning as an office, with desks and laptops. I notice soldiers moving around, dark shadows holding flashlights they point at the floor. I don’t know what I expected the nucleus of this billion-dollar operation to look like, but this is not it.
Diego leads Harp and me over to a woman with short salt-and-pepper hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses. Her name is Frankie; she was a doctor before she joined Amanda’s army. Diego briefly explains the situation—even in the dark, I see her go pale at his quick description of the faked Rapture; he tells her there will be a strategy meeting in ten minutes. Then he wanders away with Winnie, speaking in murmurs I can only just make out— “ … tonight? Do we have enough intel?” “Research … ask Suzy … can’t be that hard, if they did it.”
Frankie leads me behind a bar left over from the building’s previous function; the shelves underneath are piled with medical supplies. She lifts my arm and tests my fingers until I inhale sharply through my teeth in pain.
“Well, you certainly did a number on these guys,” she says cheerfully. “Luckily, it seems like a sprain rather than a break. What happened? Did you fall on it?”
“She punched the fuck out of Beaton Frick’s face last night,” Harp bursts out proudly.
Frankie gives me an appreciative look. “Badass.” She gets me to relax my fingers, then places a thick wad of gauze beneath them and tapes them together. “Well, I’m sure it hurts, but you were smart not to go to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know about the Church healthcare initiative?” At my blank look, Frankie groans. “Lucky you. In the last month, the corporation bought most of the major health insurance companies. The premiums are higher than ever, and really it’s just another way to keep Believers in line. You know—no abortions, no birth control, no assisted suicide. It’s a pretty genius way to convince your faithful following that their bodies don’t belong to them. Anyway, all hospitals do surveillance for the Church now—I imagine they got your picture even before it went up on the feed. There’s no way you could have gotten in and out without getting recognized.”
Once Frankie has tightly swaddled my hand, she closes the first aid kit and walks around the bar to the center of the room, joining the circle that gathers around Diego. Harp and I move to follow, but when Diego spots us, he shoots Winnie a look and she comes rushing towards us, a tablet balanced on her forearm. She pushes past us, placing a hand on both of our backs so that we’re carried along with her down a staircase and into the sleeping area. Winnie gestures to two empty beds and explains, “Diego has to brief everyone and we need updates on a few individual projects. It’ll be boring for you. Anyway, you two must be exhausted. Why don’t you take this time to get some rest?”
She beams at us and races back up the steps before I can object. I can hear Diego’s voice above us, but from this distance, I can’t make out a word he’s saying. Harp sprawls on her stomach on one of the beds, snatching up an old issue of a Church of America magazine someone’s left lying around. I recognize the cover—we devoured it months ago back in Pittsburgh, laughing over lists like 100 REASONS DEMURE GIRLS HAVE MORE FUN! and HOW TO TELL IF YOUR BEST FRIEND IS DOOMED TO ETERNAL TORMENTS IN THE PITS OF HELL! Now, staring at the shyly smiling ingénue on the cover, I feel a surge of rage. I reach out and yank the magazine from Harp’s hands.
“Uh … ” Harp watches in bemusement as I throw the magazine across the room. “I was about to take a Which Biblical Female Are You? quiz, but that’s cool, Viv, you know. Gotta practice your fastball.”
“When I think of how many issues we bought ironically, that every penny of it went into the corporation’s pockets—that they use that money to … ” I can’t finish. I close my eyes, try to make my breaths come out slow and even. “I’m glad we found these people. I hope so hard that when we go back to the compound, the Three Angels are waiting for us. I want to see their faces when they see us coming. I want to watch Diego mow them down. I want to help.”
I open my eyes and see Harp staring at me with an inscrutable expression. “He can’t mow them down,” she says. “Not tonight, anyway. We have to go public. We have to make them tell the world what they did.”
“Who cares, as long as we get rid of them?”
“I care, Viv.” Harp frowns now. “And you should, too. Look, I get that you’re angry. We’re all angry. But I’ll be honest—I don’t like this side of you. Seriously, you should have heard yourself out there—‘Swear to me! Why the fuck are you smiling!’—it was like an action movie. Not a good one.” She pauses. “The goal is not to hold on to this secret. Just because we’re the ones who found it out doesn’t mean it belongs to us. The only way to take down the corporation is to get the truth into as many heads as we can reach.”
“People won’t believe us.”
“Diego and Winnie just did. And people have believed weirder things.”
I know that what Harp’s saying makes sense, but still I feel this bloodthirsty itch—new and strangely satisfying. “Since when,” I say, “are you about not taking action? I thought we weren’t going to be meek anymore.”
“This isn’t meekness. This is caution. We don’t really know anything about these people. I like Winnie, but—you heard how she avoided answering you when you asked her about their attacks. That shit was shady, man. I don’t know. I want a better reason to trust Diego than the fact that he loves the sister you’ve only known for a day.”
“We know them better than we knew Goliath,” I reply. “And I don’t remember you hesitating to put your faith in him.”
Harp’s mouth twists into an angry knot. She lies back to stare at the ceiling. I feel a rush of remorse, and I’m about to apologize, but she speaks before I’m able and her tone is odd.
“Viv. We need to talk about something else.”
“What?”
“Our faces were the only ones on the feed. You saw it. Peter’s not on there. They didn’t post his picture; they didn’t say anything about there being a boy with us, an accomplice.”
“So?”
“So … ” Harp sits up. “For the picture of us to exist, they watched the security feed. They saw all three of us. There’s no way they could have missed Peter. I’m worried if they’re only looking for us, that means they’ve already got him.”
My stomach drops. I lower myself to sit beside Harp. I’ve been so wrapped up in everything that’s happened since we escaped—my mother, Winnie, the danger we’re in—that it never occurred to me to wonder about Peter’s absence from the feed. The only thing that’s kept me from falling apart is the sliver of possibility that he is on the run, just like we are.
“I can’t see what else it would mean,” Harp whispers. “If they didn’t have him, he’d be in the picture. The only other reason he wouldn’t be—” She shakes her head. I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t.
“What? What’s the other reason?”
“I don’t think—” Harp falters again. “I mean, there isn’t one.”
But somehow I realize what she doesn’t want to say, and I’m torn between being so angry at her I can hardly see straight, and a fear that turns my fingers numb.
“The only other reason Peter wouldn’t be in the picture,” I supply, “is if the Church isn’t looking for him. Because they don’t need to. Because he stayed behind last night to join them.”
“I’m not saying that! Not exactly! I’m only saying we have to prepare ourselves for anything. Maybe Peter escaped; maybe he’s got Frick and his dad and he’s on his way to the nearest TV station to prove the Rapture was faked, to take down the Church singlehandedly. That’s what I want, Viv. That’s my dream scenario. But the fact that he isn’t on the feed like we are makes me think it’s not what happened. Either he got caught, or … he didn’t.”
“And if he didn’t, he’s a traitor,” I drawl. “If he didn’t, I just spent the last month batting my eyelashes at a psychopath.”
“Viv—”
“Harp, I love you. I don’t want to fight. But you sound completely paranoid. I know you have your suspicions about Goliath, but this is Peter we’re talking about.” I shake my head. “Remember Nevada? Remember how he let that crazy Believer beat him senseless just so we could escape? If he’s working for the Church, he’s not doing a good job at it.”
After a moment, Harp gives me a weak smile. “You’re probably right. Sorry, Viv—I’m just freaked out by the feed, I guess. I wish so hard we weren’t on it.”
I wish it, too. But at the same time I realize that all we would have had to do to continue going undetected by the Church was nothing. It was our own defiant actions that brought us to this point. And though the consequences are huge and terrifying, I can’t regret the actions themselves. I’m about to tell her so when I see movement on the balcony above—Diego.
“Ladies?” he calls down. “Would you mind joining us?”
Harp and I exchange a look, a silent agreement to talk more later. We walk up together. I know she’s not totally convinced about Peter, and that her doubts are born out of love for me. I’d do the same for her; I have done the same. There’s not a single person Harp’s made out with this year whom I’ve not vocally suspected to be a Church of America sleeper agent. But I can’t, I don’t believe Peter lied to us. Even if it means the Church has him, I won’t believe he lied to us. I glance down at the necklace he made me—he spent all that time whittling a tiny sledgehammer out of wood, because he thought it would make me happy, because he thought it would help me be strong. No one can lie as well as that.
Can they?
Diego waits at the center of the room above in a soldier’s stance. The militia forms a semi-circle around him. I watch them watch us approach. I recognize Birdie and Frankie, but the rest of the faces are new. Winnie appears to be gone. Diego nods as he sees me looking for her.
“She went to check on Mara,” he explains. “We don’t know if the Church realizes your mom escaped the Rapture—if they do, they might be looking for her. Don’t worry—Winnie will be back tomorrow for our morning meeting. She’ll update you then.”
“Great.” I wonder if he hears the acid in my voice. I hadn’t considered the possibility that my mom is in danger, and I’m glad Winnie’s looking out for her, but the thought of their cozy evenings at home together makes me want to run at full speed through Cliff House’s windows.
There are over fifty people in Amanda’s militia, and Diego takes a moment to introduce them all. More than half are men, and of these, only four make a point to look Harp and me in the eye—Robbie, a boy who can’t be more than thirteen, who peers at us from beneath shaggy blond bangs; Elliott, mustachioed and older than our dads, who gives Harp an unnerving wink; Colby, the tallest person in the room, who stands straighter than even Diego; and Julian, long-limbed and fidgety, who turns out to be Diego’s cousin. The women are fewer but friendlier—Suzy, tall and curvy and pigtailed; Karen, a bubbly woman around Frankie’s age who makes a point to say the word “welcome”; Kimberly, who has a curly black halo of hair and a long, intimidating rifle strapped across her back, who greets us with, “What up, ladies.”
When introductions are complete, Diego turns to Harp and me. “A team of us will breach the Point Reyes compound tonight. We don’t want to waste time—it’s possible the Church has already taken steps to destroy it now that you’ve seen it. We want to thank you for bringing it to our attention—it’s a big step in the right direction for us. Now, I’m sure you’re exhausted, so please get some sleep. I’ll fill you in as much as I can in the morning.”
A handful of soldiers breaks away to head for the front door. Diego has already turned away when I call out, “Wait! I’m not tired. I want to come with you!”
When he faces me again, I see the slightest hint of irritation on Diego’s face. “That wasn’t part of our agreement, Vivian. I’m sorry.”
“But … ” I’m confused; I feel like I’ve been tricked. There’s no way I’m not going into that forest again—I won’t let anyone but myself find Peter. “You don’t know what you’re looking for! How do you plan to find this compound you didn’t know about until an hour ago?”
There’s a cough beside me, and when I turn, Suzy waves. “I hacked into the tax returns of local Church branches, and found a few million set aside for construction—fall, two years ago. Then I matched that with a public works notice about Point Reyes—a very specific press release that went out at the same time, claiming an outbreak of rabies-infected rats.” She shudders. “They put out the same notice every month since: still dealing with the rats, here are the coordinates to avoid. That whole area’s been closed to the public for the last two years—it’s a perfect place to hide a compound, if you’ve got a compound to hide.” Suzy grins. “You have to give them points for creativity.”
“Okay. But look, we want to go. We want to see this through. We can handle ourselves. Please, Diego, this is important to us!”
He sighs. “Vivian. I appreciate that you and Harp have some real pluck between you, but I’m sorry—I’m not going to take a couple of teenage girls along just for the hell of it. This is a dangerous mission, okay? This isn’t a trip to the mall.”
Harp makes an indignant noise. “You’re taking that little boy with you!” she says, pointing at Robbie, who scowls at us as he passes with his gun.
“Robbie is trained in combat,” Diego replies.
“You wouldn’t have this information without us,” I say firmly. “I don’t know what this Amanda person had planned before we told you about the Rapture, but surely this changes it. We’re a part of this now and we intend to come with you.”
He assesses me for a long moment. If he refuses again, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll steal one of the cars parked in front of Cliff House; I’ll race back to the compound myself. But I will not sit here and kill time while Peter’s out there in trouble. I don’t know if Diego’s convinced by some fire he sees in me or just cognizant of the pressure of time, but he finally sighs. “You’ll do exactly as I say and nothing more. Do you understand?”
Birdie and Frankie lend us dark jeans and black jackets to replace the summery clothes we’ve been wearing nearly two days now. We bundle into the backseat of Diego’s car alongside Suzy; Julian rides shotgun. Another car carrying Colby, Robbie, Kimberly, Birdie, and Elliott drives behind us. Within moments, the Golden Gate Bridge towers above as we cross to the Point Reyes side. The mood is tense; the only voice speaking is the GPS on Suzy’s phone. I shiver against Harp, even though the windows are shut tight against the cold night air. We’re headed back to the place my father was killed, back to the place where we last saw Peter. I’m scared as hell but I can feel my pain transforming with every passing second into angry energy.
After about an hour of the automated voice’s directions, the dark forest swallows us up on either side. Diego flips on his brights, and Suzy consults the map.
“After about three miles, you’ll hit a side road without a name. Take a left there, and after another four miles, park. That’ll put us in the vicinity. We’ll head in on foot after.”
I press my face to the car window, trying to make out something familiar, but all I see are black trees whipping past. I remember how I felt trudging through the forest last night. Like someone was watching. I hope they can see me now, whoever they are. The Three Angels, or the larger faceless mass of the corporation. I hope they see me coming and I hope they tremble.
Finally, we park and step into the frigid air. It takes time, but eventually Julian finds a clearing in the trees. Suzy leads us through it. She holds her phone in front of her, and every few minutes raises a hand in the air, then changes direction. We walk in a tight huddle. I’m amazed by how silent Amanda’s militia is, how gracefully they move through the solid dark. I try to mimic them, but I’m distracted by hope. Let Peter be here, alive, okay. Let Peter be here, alive, okay. I try to imagine him hiding in the trees: sore, bruised, exhausted, but alive. I try to imagine the smile he’ll give me when he sees me. I hold on to the thought of it because the alternative makes my knees buckle.
Last night it took hours to find Frick’s compound in the clearing. Tonight we trudge through the leaves no longer than forty-five minutes before the trees in our path give way to open space. Suzy consults her phone, stops walking.
“Well,” she says uncertainly. “It’s within the coordinates.”
I can’t see over Colby’s head, so I push to the front of the huddle. Diego hands me his flashlight, but I don’t need it—the moon is high and bright; it illuminates the clearing like a spotlight. I feel Harp work her way to my side.
“No.” She shakes her head. “This isn’t right.”
The huge structure we saw last night, Frick’s compound, the grey-stone statues that stood before it—all gone. In their place is a huge pile of broken timber, insulation, brick, and stone. I see tire tracks crisscrossing the soil leading to it.
“How could they have done it that fast?” My voice sounds small in the dark. “What happened to everything inside?”
Diego steps forward, starts giving orders. “Julian, Birdie, Elliott, Kimberly—take the perimeter. Do not go further than the edges. If you see something in the trees, shoot once and we’ll come for you. The rest of you: we’re going into the pile. Look for anything that would indicate the Church and the corporation has been here. Vivian, Harp—with me.”
We’re so close to where we found the truth last night that it’s like being shot through with electricity—I feel the nerves at the nape of my neck tingle. We follow Diego to the edges of the rubble and answer the questions he asks—where was the entrance? How many stories?—as best we can. His eyes are fixed on the pile, so he doesn’t notice that I flinch every time I see a new, unfamiliar shape in the dark. Everything looks like a body—certain piles of crumbled brick, shards of wood and metal. Everything looks like Peter’s body. Sweet Peter Ivey, who looked me in the eye and told me to run. What if he didn’t get out before they tore the building down? Harp grabs my hand and squeezes. Her dark eyes are filled with worry. She’s thinking it, too.
“I don’t know what I hoped we’d find,” Diego mutters. “A piece of paper that says, ‘We faked the Rapture; suck it, America?’ They wouldn’t leave anything important behind if they anticipated you coming back. And the fact that they tore it down means they did.” He frowns. “I can’t believe you made it in as easily as you did. It was across the country and in the middle of the woods, but you walked right in. Doesn’t it almost feel like someone wanted you to find it?”
After a while, the soldiers begin to drag identifiable bits out of the larger pile: stones I recognize from the fireplace, empty misshapen drawers from file cabinets, insulation and bits of wire, shards of broken glass, a few dusty pillows, a bathroom sink. Diego has Harp and me inspect each item, but everything is exactly what it appears to be.
I can just about sense Diego getting ready to turn back when Harp yelps and dives into the refuse. She pulls something out—a large grey stone v-shape.
“This was part of one of the statues!” she exclaims. “Adam Taggart’s arm.” She turns the shape to its side and I remember the way Peter’s dad was memorialized in the statue garden—arms akimbo, proud expression. She shall be burnt with fire.
“Did you find anything else like this?” I ask the group.
Everyone shakes their heads except for Suzy, who notes a weird slab I think may be part of one of the Three Angels’ wings. The sight of it is surreal, like a prop left over from a dream, the link between it and reality. But the militia still seems skeptical. Diego kicks carelessly at the stone wing and I realize he’s disappointed. These little bits of statue don’t prove anything. The only thing they prove is that Harp and I have been here before.
“It isn’t much,” I say. “Nothing to topple an institution with, anyway.”
Nobody answers. I hear approaching footsteps and turn to see Julian emerge from the dark, carrying something long and slim in his hands. I can’t make it out. He hands the object to Diego. “Don’t know if this is anything that means anything, but I found it propped up behind a tree outside of the clearing.”
Diego turns, holding the object into the light of the moon, and the clouds shift, and I feel something soar inside me as I recognize it.
The sledgehammer from my parents’ basement.
“That’s mine,” I say in a shaking voice, holding out my hand.
Diego hands it to me. We used the sledgehammer to break into the compound. I hadn’t realized I did not have it until now. In my head I see Peter leaning against the car as I cross a Pittsburgh street with it propped on my shoulder, the slight sexy rise of his eyebrow.
That’s a good look for you.
“We left it on the porch after we broke the window,” Harp remembers out loud. She turns to Julian. “You found it leaning against a tree?”
Julian nods. “Yep. Sitting there, propped up casual, waiting to be found.”
I run my hands along the heavy iron head, trace my fingers over the slim handle. Maybe there’s a missive etched into the wood: I’m okay. I’m on your side. But the sledgehammer feels like it always has. The fact that it’s here is the only message.
We trudge through the forest, leaving the clearing at our backs, while the pre-dawn sky brightens to a deep, soft pink. When we see the break in the trees through which we came up ahead, Harp falls slightly behind, ducking to tie her shoe. I wait with her.
“Do you think Diego’s right?” Her voice is soft—the militia is only a few yards away, and whatever she’s saying she doesn’t want them to hear.
“About what?”
“That it was too easy for us to get to the compound. That someone wanted us there.”
She rests on one knee below me, looking up, her face drawn and troubled in the early morning light. I’m exhausted, drained of all my angry momentum; all I can do is shake my head. I begin to walk away.
“No, Harp.”
“Peter was the one who told us about the compound in the first place.” She gets up and joins me down the trail. “He was behind the wheel as we drove into Point Reyes. He got us ‘lost’ near the start of the path. What if he knew where we were going all along?”
I wheel around to face her. “Why? Why would he have done that?”
“He’s Taggart’s son!” Harp insists. “Isn’t it possible he could have had reasons?”
I don’t understand why Harp is pushing at this impossibility, why she would want it to be true, but for her sake I try to look at it objectively. I think about Peter like he’s not the first boy I ever kissed, like he never made me look at the stars when I was scared, like he never made me feel like I was invincible. It’s true we made it to the compound with some amount of ease. It’s true also—I feel a pang to admit it to myself—that he didn’t tell us Adam Taggart was his father until he absolutely had to, that he might have otherwise never told us. But he is so much more than his father’s son. And last night, he told me to run. Doesn’t that count for anything?
“Please, Harp.”
“Vivian—”
“Drop it, okay?” My voice rings sharply against the trees; a nearby bird squawks in response. “If you really believe this, believe it quietly. I don’t want to hear it anymore.”
Harp bites down on the inside of her cheek; after a moment, she nods. We follow the militia to the cars waiting for us. I’m sure Harp means well, but I can’t look at her as we climb into the back seat and start the drive back to San Francisco. She’s only looking out for me, I know, but she’s distracting me from the most important mission I have right now: to find Peter. To save Peter. She’s making me doubt myself.
I close my eyes so no one will talk to me, and soon the rumble of the engine has lulled me into a nightmare: pitch-black forest, the thin branches of trees whipping at my face. Something chasing me, I don’t know what. A path that twists and turns but always leads to a body on the ground: my father, curled lifeless on his side. But I have to keep running. I go as long as I can without looking back, until I feel like I can’t run anymore, and then at last I turn and the thing that’s chasing me is there waiting, it has always been there, and I know at once what it is.
I recognize the blue.